


Versinken, Unbewusst

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Ambiguity, Angry Pitcher/Catcher Dynamics, Angst and Tragedy, Insomnia, It Ends Poorly, Losing and Losing More, M/M, Minnesota Twins, Obsession, Secret Crush, The Twins Are Dysfunctional, trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 13:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17663489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: But then he walks Ramos, walks Span, allows two singles; there are more walks, more singles, more doubles, more runs, more RBIs tallied for the Rays, and guys left on base for the bullpen to crap up - it’s a mess.Why is he pitching like this?





	Versinken, Unbewusst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohtempora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/gifts).



Three things happen to Lance at the beginning of 2018.

First, his divorce is finalized, and that’s a relief. Second, St. Louis decides not to pay him, and so, third, he moves to Minnesota once it’s settled that he’ll play for the Twins.

He figures it’ll be good to get away from last year’s drama. The Twins had a more recent trip to the playoffs than the Cardinals, anyway.

In Minneapolis, he learns three more things.

First, it’s a hell of a lot colder at the end of March than he figured that it would be, all grey skies and dirty melting snow and the instant desire for a new winter coat.

Second, he learns quickly that he’s very lucky to have Jason Castro catching him, an easy rapport having developed quickly during spring training. Having a friendly catcher is always a bonus, especially when you’re the new guy in the rotation.

And third: he realizes that the German kid, Max Kepler, is fucking _hot_.

Max is just twenty-five, a right fielder with a really nice left-handed swing. He’s got dark hair, blue eyes, and a great smile, and is incredibly handsome. He’s a big kid, fast and athletic and flexible and well-built. He’s got no accent, but something about his voice seems to stop just one step short of having one. He’s soothing and soft-spoken, and the first time Lance talks to him, he gets a weird lump in his throat in about ten seconds.

He’s had attractive teammates before. He’s even thought about other guys before, starting when he was still in Mississippi. His ex knew even about it and hated it.

However, it’s something he’s always been able to get a handle on on quickly.

So Lance simply acknowledges that Max is pretty - _God, he’s almost_ appallingly _pretty_ \- and he tries not to give that acknowledgement any power.

He figures it shouldn’t be too hard to do. Pitchers are good at compartmentalizing by nature.

***

Lance’s first start for the Twins, against the Pirates, is a complete fiasco.

From his first pitch, he’s missing badly. The umpire isn’t even stingy: he just misses. Harrison walks. Lance tries not to miss, and Polanco doubles. He walks Marte. He walks Cervelli. He has no idea what’s going on, he tries not to miss again, Moran nearly sends the ball into the Allegheny River, and it’s 5-0 Pittsburgh. _Fuck!_

“Well.” Jason laughs nervously after the game. “Bit of the new-team jitters still?”

“Probably.” Lance laughs back.

But then it happens again. Four more walks against Houston, and the Twins get shut out.

The Twins go to Tampa, and it gets even worse. The first two innings go well. Lance is relaxed and Jason calls a good game and is complimentary. But then he walks Ramos, walks Span, allows two singles; there are more walks, more singles, more doubles, more runs, more RBIs tallied for the Rays, and guys left on base for the bullpen to crap up - it’s a mess.

_Why is he pitching like this?_

In the ninth inning, Max hits a home run. It’s an admirably powerful swing, one that sends the ball flying somewhere down the right field line - and ties the game.

Lance is sitting in the dugout, oversized ice-pack wrapped around his right shoulder. Max runs home, Lance’s heart does a sort of belly-flop, and a hot shudder rolls in a wave from his head to his feet. It feels good. Frighteningly good.

He looks at Max. His pulse throbs oddly behind his ears.

He reminds himself that _he’s had attractive teammates before. That_ itself _is not a new phenomenon._

But this is not a reaction he’s ever had, or ever even anticipated having.

Minnesota loses in extras on an error.

“C’mon man.” Jason says to Lance. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“A drink sounds real good.”

***

Lance doesn’t like losing, pitching poorly, or starting off on the wrong foot like this. But Lance likes Jason. He’s competitive, but an eternal optimist, and very encouraging.

They’re working together in the bullpen the day before an off-day. Lance knows his delivery isn’t quite right. Progress is slow.

“Okay, let’s try the curve again.” Jason calls out, wagging two fingers between his legs. “Just be aware of your feet. Hit me. You got this.”

Lance spins the ball in his hand until he gets a feel for it, but before he can actually throw it, Jason raises his hand and takes his mask off, eyes fixing somewhere behind Lance.

“What is it, Max?”

Lance turns around and Max is there, leaning on the railing. It’s a surprise to see him.

_Lance is suddenly, horribly jealous of all the pitchers Max has faced; all of the opponents to who get to stare at him, even from sixty feet away, watch his swing, and try to dissect how his mechanics work._

_Even just_ standing _there, he looks very strong and very young and remarkably attractive, dreamy in a way he’s never seen anyone look before while just…standing there._

It’s late April, it’s barely fifty degrees outside, and Lance immediately starts sweating. He looks away for a moment; tries hard to ignore it.

“Catchers’ meeting is now at eleven.” Max smiles slightly. “Apparently I’m Paul’s errand boy today, in case you are wondering why an outfielder is telling you this.”

“Thanks. Fifteen minutes, I’ll be there.”

Max mutters a quick _Hey Lance_ , closes the bullpen door, and Jason resumes his position. “Okay, curve.”

 _Try to ignore it. Try to fucking ignore it;_ _ignore_ him. _He remembers what his high school coach told him: be dumb. Just pitch._

The ball bounces three feet in front of Jason (who makes a feeble half-swipe at it anyway) and twangs against the chain-link fence. Lance swears loudly and shakes his out right hand as if it’s got a mind of its own.

“It’s okay.” Jason yells. “It’s okay, Lance. We’re gonna figure this out.”

***

Lance can’t sleep. Every time he thinks he _might_ , he somehow ends up face-to-face with the digital display of his bedside clock, neon green numbers reminding him of how much time he’s spending awake.

It’s 2:51 AM, and Lance’s thoughts go down some pretty weird avenues at this hour. He could be thinking about how his curveball’s really been getting whacked around, or the upcoming road trip, or the weather, but he isn’t.

 _He’s thinking about Max._ Of course he’s thinking about the kid. More frequently than not these days, Max keeps creeping into the forefront of his consciousness, and day after day, Lance keeps pushing him back because he _has to_.

He closes his eyes, and for once, he stops pushing.

Behind his eyelids, Lance sees the familiar green of Target Field and the comfort of a home crowd.

And Max. _Only Max._

Max leading off first, like a steely-eyed predator coiled and ready to pounce. Watching Max on second. Admiring Max’s broad shoulders and big arms and intense blue eyes, eyes like the sky in Minnesota fifteen minutes before twilight.

Lance is thinking about meeting Max in the bullpen. Hands up and out, imagining his palms catching on the buttons of Max’s jersey and on the number _26_ on his chest. Wrapping his arms around him, dragging his hands up Max’s back, enjoying the way his muscles play under his skin. Moving his hand up the nape of Max’s neck, feeling his hair soft between his fingers. The thought is almost too _nice_.

He remembers before the game earlier, when he watched Max jogging out to the mound, much like how he just jogged right into Lance’s world two-and-a-half months ago and stuck there, stubbornly, like a blister on his pitching finger that simply won’t heal.

Lance doesn’t fall asleep until nearly five.

***

Sadly, Jason blows his knee out in May. He’s done for the year, and Mitch takes over the catching duties.

Mitch is the polar opposite of Jason, and regardless of what’s shown on television and on the web, Mitch and Lance really don’t get along that well. They never have.

First, they have a couple of disastrous bullpens together. Lance is tired and can’t get the ball even close to where he wants, and Mitch _talks shit_. Lance knows that Mitch is just one of these guys who motivates by insult and intimidation. It works for some people, but _it doesn’t work on him_. It never will.

Then Lance starts against the Cardinals. He thinks it’s going to be good to see his former team again. Maybe he’ll even get the upper hand and make them regret letting him leave.

But Fowler walks. Peña walks. DeJong walks. Fowler walks again. The Twins fall behind quickly. Paul decide’s he’s seen enough after three innings.

On his next scheduled throw day, Lance is wild to the point where the pitching coaches pore worryingly over his different grips, wonder if he might be hurt or fatigued, and there’s endless, brow-furrowing brouhaha about precision and _why his command just isn’t there._

Mitch talks even more shit.

Lance has two okay starts, actually gets two wins, and then the Indians come to town.

Ramirez walks. Allen walks. Allen steals home - _steals fucking home_ \- on him. Brantley walks. Lance wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He tries to force himself to _just pitch_ and _throw a damn_ strike. Instead, he hits Yonder Alonso with the ball. _Shit, not_ that _kind of strike!_

In the middle of the third inning, Mitch starts to become irate.

“You’re not in the same area code as the zone here, man. You’re gonna fucking hurt someone.”

The Twins go to Detroit. The weather is humid and cloudy and crappy and they’re falling further behind in the division. Lance vows to concentrate, tries to follow Mitch’s signs, to trust him, and he makes it into the seventh with the Twins up 1-0.

Very briefly, he thinks about Max, and pictures him patrolling the outfield somewhere behind him.

Then he hits Jose Iglesias, square on the shoulder.

Behind home plate, Mitch shakes his head. Paul plods out to the mound, asks if _everything’s all right_ , and Lance waves him away.

And then he throws a total meatball to JaCoby Jones. And then they’re losing 2-1, fortunes reversed in an instant.

Before the top of the eighth begins, Mitch corners him in the clubhouse.

“The hell was _that_ , Lynn?” Mitch says, and immediately starts to lecture him about how he knows that Lance hasn’t been working on his breaking pitches again, something technical that immediately starts to just go in one ear and out the other.

Because over Mitch’s shoulder, Lance can see Max, relaxed and laughing easily with Byron. Some part of Lance wants to walk over to Max, smile, and enjoy being _not serious_ with him. To spend time with him, to talk to him, to just sit and look at him. When Lance does talk to Max, it’s always so perfunctory and professional, and the Twins tend to segregate themselves socially by position, on top of it. Lance wants - he doesn’t even know the _entirety_ of what he wants, but he wants more of Max in _any_ capacity.

Mitch’s hands, unyielding on his upper arms, grip him back to reality.

 _Control issues_ , Mitch is talking about. Control issues. Lance’s _fucking control issues_.

“Focus.” He growls. “Just focus, that’s all. This is what happens when you get tired and lose focus.”

The Twins lose. Lance can’t get the after-image of Max’s bright grin out of his head for a long, long time. It’s driving him nuts.

***

It’s quarter-to-four in the morning. Lance has been asleep for maybe only an hour when he wakes up, tumbling back into consciousness from a dream that he can’t quite remember.

But it doesn’t even take a full minute of being awake before he’s back _there_ again, letting Max straight-up take over his imagination, and letting his imagination take the wheel and steer and just hijack everything inside him.

He thinks about Max’s mouth, and what it would be like to kiss him, to feel his lips warm and soft against his; to find out what he tastes like. In his head, Lance feels his cheek against Max’s, feels his mouth roaming across Max’s jawline.

Max’s head falling back with a moan. Max’s eyes going wild and unchartered. Unbuttoning Max’s shirt, sliding fabric over his shoulders, kissing his collarbone and the hottest parts of his neck, down his chest, open hands and face and tongue all over smooth, pale skin. Max being so gorgeous; so unfairly, _insurmountably_ gorgeous as always. His hands on Max’s waist, Max’s hands on top of his, goosebumps on Max’s forearms, feeling _obsessed_ , dropping to his knees, being totally _captivated_ , moving _down_ …

Lance squints, as if he’s trying to force himself down, _down_ and _inside_ , deeper into his own fantasy, and realizes he’s half-hard in his sleep pants and breathing fast - way faster than he really should be.

It’s like a sick joke, how much this has taken ahold of him. He barely even _knows_ Max, barely even _speaks_ to the kid, and this is _complete madness_.

Lance gets out of bed, walks to the kitchen, opens the cabinet, finds his favorite vodka - and takes a chug right from the bottle.

And then another. And then two more.

He’s got to get this under control before it blows him apart.

***

It’s a July first contest with the Cubs, and Lance can’t get out of his own head. Normally he can wipe everything blank. He can switch the world off when he pitches, but he can’t stop _this_.

_Not when it’s starting to spill over from all his sleepless nights into daytime._

Daydreaming about Max, fantasizing about him, _watching_ him - Lance fights it all and fails pathetically. The particular shape Max takes jogging out for fielding drills, the flattened mess of his hair when he takes his hat off, the slight flush that’s always coloring his cheeks; Lance has fast, too-real thoughts about unbuckling Max’s belt, shaky hands fumbling while untucking Max’s jersey and…too much shit like _this_ ; a rising tide; a switch jammed firmly and worryingly in the _on_ position.

_He’s got nothing._

The Cubs know it. Rizzo walks. Russell walks. Then Jon Lester - a National League pitcher - hits a home run. Happ and Zobrist and Baez blow the game open. Lance is red-faced and frustrated and it’s one of the worst games he can remember. He’s mercifully escorted off the mound at the bottom of the second, but Magill isn’t much better and Schwarber and Contreras complete the day’s ruination of his earned-run average.

Mitch blows up - actually _blows up_ \- after the Twins are down seven runs. “You think I like losing?” Mitch hisses. “You think I like getting _embarrassed_  like this because you’re leaving the ball up dead center where my grandma could hit it?”

“Seriously, just calm down, man.” Lance says. “I’m sorry. Didn’t sleep well. Clearly not my best stuff. It happens. We’ll go over all on film later.”

Mitch doesn’t calm down.

“Okay, the actual fuck is your problem today?”

“I told you. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Look, if you got some drama at home or whatever, you can’t bring that shit here. You can’t be distracted. It’s like you’ve…you’ve got something else in your head. Like you’re _blocked_. Maybe Castro would tolerate that but I _won’t_.”

“ _Whoa_.” Lance says. “Come on. I just said I didn’t sleep. That’s really not fair, man, jumping to conclusions like that.”

_But he’s right._

It escalates, and Lance raises his voice, and Mitch gets too close, right up under Lance, right in his face, and accuses him of being impossible. Lance fires back by telling Mitch he’s overreacting and being childish, and Mitch cusses repeatedly - probably a prelude to launching into some gigantic tirade like he always does.

“Oh, simmer down, _both_ of ya.” Paul barks from somewhere across the dugout. “We still have seven innings left to play here.”

Then Lance sees Max, glove in hand, walk dejectedly down the ramp toward the visitor’s clubhouse.

For a small instant, Lance almost feels like _something_ about this is Max’s fault, _somehow_ , and then that notion pings back into him as quickly as it formed, because no, this is all _his_ shit that _he_ has to deal with, and Lance realizes he must look how he feels. Stupid.

This is all really, _really_ stupid, and it’s become a big, stupid problem.

***

It’s the third night this week that Lance has done this in the middle of the night.

He’s lying, flat on his back, semi-drunk, overheating, shorts half-off, lotion on his hand and hand around his dick.

And images, images and scenes blazing rapid-fire in his head. Kissing Max everywhere, his beard scratching red onto places where Max’s skin is lighter and softer. Pulling down Max’s pants, touching Max’s cock; feeling Max hard and hot in his hands. Licking him from base to tip, working his tongue into his slit a little and loving it when Max gets wet for him. Lapping up the slickness and sucking him off, teasing until Max can’t take it anymore.

Imagining Max red-cheeked, biting his lip when he comes, pleasure painted all over his sweet youthful face.

Reciprocation. Max on his knees for him, eyes turned up at him longingly, pink full lips around his cock; Lance’s thumb tracing over Max’s cheekbones and eyebrows and eyelashes when he closes his eyes.

Max being quiet when Lance pushes into him slowly. Lance being careful; Max being inexperienced and tight and warm inside. Max giving; Lance _taking_.

Lance taking him _anywhere_. Bending Max over, fucking him in the clubhouse, in the bullpen, against the center-field wall, right on the goddamn pitcher’s mound, right _here_ in his bed after a game, with Max on his back and Lance on top of him, overwhelming and enfolding him. Making Max come, hard and _loud_ and all over himself.

Lance jerks himself off, fast and slick, everything a hot, dizzying swirl of baseball and sex and shame. His mind has given in to all of it. His body follows shortly as he fucks up into his hand and comes on his stomach, breath wavering and gaze resolute and sad.

_This will never leave this room._

_This will never even leave the frustrated confines of Lance’s thoughts._

He’d never act on it. He’d never even think about acting on it. It would just make everything exponentially worse, like it could possibly get any worse. Max is probably straight, Max probably likes women, Max probably has a girlfriend, and even if he _didn’t_ , even if he _himself_ had these thoughts, he’d probably never do anything with a teammate as long as he lived because _you just don’t_ do _that_.

Especially not with Lance, a pudgy, divorced dad from Middle of Nowhere, Indiana, struggling with his pitches and his emotions and costing his team games. And being forced, at _thirty-one_ , to look in the rear-view mirror at wasted years and dulling reflexes. And never actually being happy, when he thinks about it.

Lance chokes on a sigh, and closes his eyes. A single tear slides down his cheek.

It’s 5:17 AM.

***

Even the Royals, with their twenty-nine wins and _sixty-eight_ losses, get to him.

Bonifacio walks. Perez takes him out of the yard. Escobar walks. Moustakas walks. Perez walks. Bonifacio (or is it Duda?) walks, fucking walks again, not like it even matters anymore.

It’s another heartbreaking loss.

He tries to talk to Mitch at 11 PM, when the clubhouse is empty, and tries to apologize, to explain, to do _anything_.

Mitch just raises his hands and shrugs.

“I don’t know.” He spits bitterly. “I just don’t fucking know anymore.”

“What’s there to know? This season’s toast, and I’m probably mostly to blame, and you know it.”

“Yeah, it’s been rough, but you’re seven-and-eight, Lynn, so quit the martyr shit.” Mitch says, and he walks away, probably to steady his nerves. “We _all_ fucking suck right now.”

Lance sits in one of the armchairs in the locker room. He growls to himself, and heaves his glove across the room as hard as he can, where it thuds unceremoniously against the metal trash can.

_How did this all go so wrong?_

On July twenty-ninth, they’ve just gotten back from Boston and had a meeting, and a few of them are still loitering around the park. It’s getting late, but Lance is in the locker room looking for a spare pair of cleats for practice tomorrow.

“Lance?” He recognizes Paul’s voice. “Can you come down to my office for a bit?”

“Sure.”

He follows Paul down the hall, to where the offices are. There’s nothing abnormal about it; Paul frequently has individual meetings wth him and his teammates. Lance figures it’s going to be him, and one of the pitching coaches, and probably some deserved biting criticism about the walks. Maybe they’ll enquire about Lance’s insomnia, because he figures Mitch has probably said something by now, and Lance will have to stare into space and make something up.

But when the door to Paul’s office opens, it’s very different. There are four people. Levine, the General Manager, Mike, the team travel guy, and two others, a man and a woman, presumably assistants, whom Lance does not recognize.

The door closes, and Paul takes his place behind his desk.

“First.” Paul starts. “Nice work against Boston. Shame our guys just couldn’t hit.”

“Thanks, Skip.”

There are three heartbeats worth of silence.

“And second. Well, I’ve been through some difficult times in this office, and this is always one of them. But I figure the blunt approach - the honest approach - is always best.”

“Lance.” Levine starts. “You’re being traded to New York. You’re going to the Yankees.”

***

Lance has never been traded before. He doesn’t know how he’s reacting. He doesn’t even know how he _should_ react.

Emotionally, it’s a slug in the gut, like he’s been hauled out and decked with the full limits of human strength, but it’s not pain, not relief, nothing he can even process yet - just straight _force_.

“Well, okay.” He just says.

“I also gotta assure you that it’s just for baseball reasons.” Paul says, handing him an envelope. “In there are numbers of the guys in the Bronx. They’re actually very nice and will get you situated right away. Mike’s already made travel arrangements, but if you have any questions, just ask him.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah.” Levine replies. “We’ll be having a press conference about it at nine tomorrow, so let’s meet back here at eight-thirty. ”

When it finally goes quiet in the room, Lance stands and heads toward the door.

“And thanks.” Paul says quietly. “For all you’ve done for our organization this season. Might not feel like it right now, but it’s all appreciated.”

_Like that, it’s all over._

***

He’s alone now.

Lance stands in front of his locker for a long time, looking up above the cabinets to the small steel name-plate above. _Lynn 31. His name’s not going to be there in forty-eight hours._ He walks around slowly, looking at everyone’s names, illuminated from above in the dim locker room.

_Garver 18. Castro 15. Buxton 0. Kepler 26._

In front of the last, he stops, reaches up, traces his fingers over the metal, and a hard pang of something - _Regret? Longing? Sadness?_ \- stabs him inside.

Finally, he returns to his own business, unzips his bag, and begins to pack his gloves and a couple of shirts.

He’s closing his eyes, trying to not even look at what he’s doing anymore, but Lance looks up when he hears his voice, and he and sees Max standing a few feet away. He didn’t even hear him come in, but he’s here now.

“Hey.” He says.

“Hey yourself.” Lance replies, and goes back to rummaging around in his locker. He doesn’t say anything else.

“You okay, Lance?” Max asks. Lance looks at him, all six-foot-four of him, easy and beautiful and _unaware_ and _home_ , in _his_ home - but not Lance’s home any more.

 _There are no paradises in the world, even temporary ones. Max is not Lance’s teammate anymore, and never, never will be_ his _, never_ was _his, and with that thought Lance feels like he’s going to be sick, like he’s going to…_

“Yeah.” He answers back. “I’m-I’m okay.”

“ _Are_ you?” Max asks, stepping closer, eyes soft and concerned.

“I’m okay.” He repeats. “I’m okay.” _Again._

“All right.” Max reaches out and squeezes Lance’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

_It’s the first time Max has ever touched him._

“Sounds good.”

Max grabs a jacket from his locker and goes back out into the hall.

“I’m okay.” Lance mouths to the empty room, the empty space where Max had been.

_Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t._

**Author's Note:**

> Title translates from German as "Sinking, Unconscious", and is the penultimate line sung in "Tristan and Isolde", which, obviously speaking, has nothing to do with baseball whatsoever. *shrugs*
> 
> For T., because she is my friend.
> 
> No beta.


End file.
